Sea fighter

by James H. Cobb

  “Anything new to report, Brigadier?” Belewa inquired, brushing the moisture from the front of his poncho.

  “No, General. Nothing to report. The helicopter group that launched from the American base platform has turned away to the south and has dropped below our radar horizon. Track has been lost. We continue to note much small-craft activity off the immediate coastal area, but no pattern has formed yet.”

  “Very good, Brigadier.”

  Once it would have been “Obe” and “Sako,” but somehow the names didn’t taste right in the mouth anymore. Belewa collected his cup once more and turned to the tea urn. Sometimes things other than men die in war.

  A mile and a half northwest of General Belewa’s command post and a quarter mile off the northern breakwater, a cluster of small eight-man inflatable assault boats bobbed in the low rain-smoothed swells, a hood of radar and infrared absorbent material drawn over the huddled passengers in each craft.

  In the stern of each tiny vessel, a sweating coxswain huddled, constantly cross-checking between the glowing palm size screen of his GPU unit and the flickering watchfires along the breakwater. Occasionally, he twisted the throttle of his silent electric outboard motor, using a brief shot of power to hold on station, awaiting the order to move in.

  In the bow of her craft, Amanda Garrett cautiously lifted the edge of the RAM hood and peered toward shore.

  Soon.

  Mobile Offshore Base, Floater 1 2325 Hours, Zone time; September 7, 2007

  The Admiral and the intel had elected to use the briefing trailer as their headquarters rather than to further crowd the already cramped confines of the Operations and TACNET vans. Half a dozen systems operators manning laptop workstations along the conference table linked them into the mission data flow and the big flatscreen monitors on the forward bulkhead gave them their overview of the battle zone.

  “It’s all pretty straightforward, sir,” Christine said, her fingertip traveling down the graphics map of the Union coastline. “Union units are in red. Pink for militia. Bright red for the regulars. Red with the blue outline for the naval elements. Ours are blue. The Brits green. The French gold. Each point boxed in along the coastline indicates an area where a specific diversionary action is going to take place!’

  Macintyre nodded, and leaned back against the end of the conference table. His day’s worth of beard rasped lightly against the collar of his flight suit. “Where’s Captain Garrett and the assault force at this moment?”

  “Here, sir. Holding at Point Fathertree, off the northern port breakwater. They were inserted by the PGACs and will hold on station there until the coast is clear for the final approach and penetration of the harbor area itself.”

  “Are the PGs still with them?”

  “No, sir.” Christine indicated a spot roughly three miles off the harbor mouth. “The Three Little Pigs are moving out to Point Sun Village at this time, running in swimmer mode and fully stealthed. Sun Village is the missile-firing station for the strike against the Monrovia power and communications net. Following the strike, they’ll move up to Point Blue Mountain, here about one mile off the harbor entrance. They’ll hold there for the extraction call by the boarding teams.”

  Macintyre gave a noncommittal grunt, studying the screen.

  One of the systems operators looked up from her terminal. “Commander Rendino. We are coming up on initiation point for Diversion Treestump.”

  Christine glanced back. “Very well. Intelligence access, do we have any situational changes ashore?”

  “Negative, Commander. Intel indicates no changes.”

  “Okay, then. Signals, pass the word. Initiate Treestump. Execute as planned.”

  Christine looked back to Macintyre. “Now, sir, we start dazzling them with our fancy footwork”.

  “In theory,” the Admiral replied, leaning back against the end of the table. “This is an aspect of this operation that I’m worried about. It seems like we’re taking an awful lot for granted here.”

  “We don’t have much choice, sir. Belewa knows when we’re coming, he knows where we’re coming from, and he knows where we’re going. We have to do something to throw him off balance. Essentially what we are attempting to do, above and beyond sprinkling a lot of general confusion around, is to build a certain mind-set that will encourage Belewa into doing certain things that will let us sneak in through the door.”

  “I understand that, Chris,” Macintyre replied. “I also understand that trying to run your enemy by remote control can be a damn tricky thing to pull off. He might not be in an obliging mood tonight.”

  The intel grinned back. “You have to remember that Captain Garrett has an edge in this situation, Admiral. She’s a woman, and we females have a certain knack at getting men to do what we want them to.”

  Diversion Point Treestump

  7 Miles East-Southeast of Cape Mesurado

  Between Monrovia and King Grays Town 2331 Hours, Zone Time; September 7, 2007

  The dull-black Fiberglas paddles didn’t flash as they dug into the wave crests.

  The half-dozen raider boats surfed onto the broad sandy beach, their passengers springing over the gunwales into the trailing foam. Catching up the nylon strap carrying handles looped around the gunwales of the small inflatable craft, the Marines lifted them from the sea and bore them up onto the beach.

  Ahead, beyond the beach, lay a band of heavy brush and trees. And beyond that, the coast road. For the moment, the roughly paved stretch of highway was empty, the landing carefully timed between the intermittent Union motorized patrols.

  To the north and south of the landing site, perhaps a mile in each direction, were the faint, guttering lights of fishermen’s shacks. Out at sea, blacked out and circling slowly, the Patrol Craft USS Santana held station. She had delivered the Fox company assault platoon to its objective and, God willing, she would take them away.

  Carrying their raider boats with them, the Marines hurried up the beach, the last man from each boat party blurring their tracks in the sand with a gunnysack.

  The Foxmen did not want their presence known. At least not yet.

  Port Monrovia Defense Command Post 2334 Hours, Zone Time; September 7, 2007

  One of the command track’s radiomen looked up. “General Belewa. There is a communication from Captain Mosabe aboard the Promise. He wishes to speak with you, sir.”

  Belewa took two fast steps to the radio console and caught up a handset. “Belewa here.”

  “We are tracking unusual targets on our radar, General,” the gunboat squadron commander’s filtered voice replied. “Many of them.”

  “What do you mean unusual, Captain?”

  “Like nothing we have ever seen before. Small surface contacts. Many of them. They seem to appear and disappear at random. Either that or they are moving at incredible speeds from point to point. Faster than we can establish a plot.”

  “Where are they coming from?” Belewa demanded.

  “Nowhere, General. They just started to appear on our screens.”

  “Could this be some kind of American radar jamming?”

  “It’s nothing that we recognize.”

  “Speed, number, heading?”

  “General, we cannot get an accurate count or an accurate plot! There is just a whole wave of them out there, bearing down on us.”

  Diversion Line Dewshine

  Ten Miles off Monrovia 2334 Hours, Zone Time; September 7, 2007

  One of three such craft involved in the same enterprise, the sixteen-foot navy miniraider chugged slowly along while an assembly line ran in its bow.

  Two enlisted hands inflated a small weather balloon with helium while a third tied off a thirty-foot length of high-test fishing line to the balloon’s hard point. The other end of the fishing line, in turn, was attached to a short length of two-by
-four that would serve as a floating sea anchor.

  The two-by-four was tossed over the raider’s side and the balloon was released to soar upward to the full length of the fishing line, the thirty feet of tether being just enough to bring the balloon above the scan horizon of the surface-search radar at Port Monrovia.

  Suspended beneath the balloon on another single strand of fishing line was a three-square-foot panel of common kitchen aluminum foil, its edges stiffened with light wire. As the balloon drifted slowly toward the Union coast, the foil panel twisted in the mild trade winds, randomly displaying first its edge and then its reflective broad side to the probing Union radar beams.

  Diversion Point Leetah

  Off the Mouth of the Po River,

  Seven Miles Northwest of Port Monrovia 2340 Hours, Zone Time; September 7, 2007

  On the bridge of the Corvette La Fleurette, Commander Jacques Trochard glanced at the bulkhead chronometer. “Very well, gentlemen,” he said crisply. “Let’s become obvious.”

  Lights blazed on the decks. Running lights. Work lights. Pulsing helipad markers. Astern, the squadron mate of the little French man-of-war illuminated up as well, a constellation of glowing red, green, and white against the blackened sea.

  The corvette’s Sea Lynx helicopters lifted into the sky, their navigational beacons set to “bright flash.” With their spotlights sweeping the wavetops, the helos led the way as the formation swept in toward the Union coast.

  “What do we do next, Capitaine?” Trochard’s exec inquired from behind the helm station.

  “To my regret, Andre, nothing more,” Trochard replied wistfully. “However, we shall endeavor to look most impressive while we are doing it.”

  “Sighting! The militia post at Po River reports enemy warships and helicopters approaching the coast. The outpost commander says that a landing attempt appears imminent. He requests reinforcements.”

  Belewa and his staff clustered in around the map table.

  Diversion Strike Madcoll

  Off the Union Coast Between the Po

  and St. Paul Rivers 2342 Hours, Zone Time; September 7, 2007

  Holding in a diamond formation, the flight of big helicopters thundered in toward the Union shoreline, holding so low to the sea that their rotorblast flattened troughs in the wave crests beneath them.

  In the cockpit of the lead British Merlin, Squadron Commander Evan Dane scanned the darkness ahead through the night-vision visor of his helmet. Gradually, delineated in the hazy greens of the photomultiplier system, he made out the pale sand of the beach and darker forest line beyond it.

  His thumb came down on the transmit key atop his collective controller. “Squadron leader to squadron. Enemy coast ahead.”

  Lifting his thumb, he let the system revert to intercom mode. Chuckling softly, he spoke to his copilot. “You know what, Mick? I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  Crossing the beach, the helos lifted a meager twenty feet above the treetops and drove inland.

  “Sighting report! The Klay highway motor patrol reports a formation of helicopters crossing the highway at a point eight miles northwest of the port area, proceeding inland. The patrol leader reports several heavy troop carrier-type machines flying at very low altitude.”

  More marks were scribbled on the acetate cover of the table map.

  “It must be that flight that launched from the American platform,” Belewa pondered aloud. “First they divert to break radar contact. Now they return and cross the coast above us. What could they be up to?”

  “A commando landing somewhere in our rear areas, no doubt,” Brigadier Atiba said decisively. “The Americans favor airmobile operations. That must be it.”

  A murmur of agreement drifted from the other staff officers crowded into the command track. Belewa made no further comment.

  Diversion Point Scouter

  Yatono Reef, Three Miles Northwest

  of the St. Paul River 2347 Hours, zone time; September 7, 2007

  The boat crew hauled the two wet-suit-clad figures over the rubber gunwale.

  “You guys okay?” a whispered voice demanded.

  “Yeah, yeah, take off! Take off!”

  Aft, at the helm station, the coxswain opened the throttle of the Zodiac’s powerful outboard. Snarling, the twenty-four foot semirigid sheered away from the coast, trailing a broad and foaming V of wake behind it. Peering astern, the Marine swimmers and the navy boatmen counted seconds.

  The numbers ran out. A blue-white glare illuminated the coastline and, in the heart of it, a frozen image of a warped ship’s hull standing up on end and disintegrating. The shock wave followed through the water and the roar of the explosion through the air.

  The coxswain swung the Zodiac parallel to the coast once more, backing off on her speed. “Okay, start heaving ’em over the side,” she ordered.

  They began to pitch the remainder of their cargo into the sea at ten-second intervals: smoke floats, flashing emergency strobes, flare buoys.

  “Sightings! The wrecked ship off Yatono Village has just blown up!”

  “What?” Brigadier Atiba demanded. “Confirm that. What wreck?”

  “The old hulk grounded on Yatono Reef. Many confirmations now. All beach patrols north of the St. Paul are reporting in. It was a very large explosion.”

  Atiba shook his head in puzzlement. “It must be the Americans, but why in God’s name would they blow up a shipwreck?”

  “Not the ship, but the reef it’s grounded on,” the naval liaison officer exclaimed. “They must be blowing a gap in the reef line to permit the passage of amphibious assault craft. That can be the only explanation, General.”

  Belewa did not reply. He only gazed broodingly down upon the map table.

  “More sighting reports coming in, General. Beach patrols now see lights on the water beyond Yatono reef. They hear boat engines and report what could be a smoke screen forming offshore …”

  Diversion Point OneEye

  The St. Paul River Estuary

  Two Miles Northwest of Port Monrovia 2352 Hours, Zone Time,

  September 7, 2007

  With fans of spray flaring back from her sharp cutwater, the USS Sirocco charged the Union coast. In her wheelhouse, her captain grimly shifted his eyes between the computer graphics chart on the quartermaster’s console and the fathometer screen, gauging how much water he had left off his bow and below his keel.

  “Helm, come left to heading zero zero zero.”

  “Coming left to zero zero zero, sir.”

  The patrol craft leaned into her turn, clearing her bow and stern autocannon mounts. Gunners buried their faces into night-bright scopes and slender gun barrels indexed, the whine of the servo drives lost in the tumbling hiss of the sea along the PC’s flanks.

  “Bow and stern mounts report they have acquired initial target, sir,” the wheelhouse talker barked. “Range six double oh meters. Mounts are tracking and are standing by to commence fire.”

  “Very well. Bow and stern mounts. Commence firing!”

  The 25mm Bushmaster cannon began hammering out precise and deliberate three-round bursts, the tracers arcing away through the mist toward the shadowy coastline.

  “Attack report, General! The garrison at the mouth of the St. Paul River is being fired upon from the sea. They are returning fire!”

  Multiple tracer streams lashed out wildly from the shore, spraying the night. Mortars thudded and recoilless rifle back flares blazed like gigantic flashbulbs along the beach line. Shell plumes lanced up and out the sea in the Sirocco’s wake. None too close, but all close enough.

  “Helm! Come hard left to one nine zero! All engines ahead full! Bow mount, cease fire! Stem mount, continue to engage while you have the range!”

  The PC arced away from the coast, dancing out of the reach of the destruction hurled after h
er. As the coast receded beyond its reach, her stern gun fell silent The shoreside weapons continued to rage, however, blazing away madly at specters seen in the darkness.

  The Surrocco’s captain took a deep breath and flexed the taut muscles in his shoulders. They’d haul off a bit and let the Union troops waste their ammunition for as long as they had a mind to. When things quieted down again, they’d make another pass.

  “This must be the commitment to the attack, General,” Atiba exclaimed. “Everything indicates a beach assault by the American marines on our northern flank. We need to start orienting our reserve forces to cover the northern land approaches to the harbor area.”

  “No,” Belewa grunted, leaning over the map table. “We don’t move anyone out of position. Not yet.” For a moment it was as it had been in the old days. A tactical problem to be solved and the animosities forgotten. “This is all nothing, Sako. All smoke and lights and a big show. She wants us to think there will be a landing. She beckons to us. She tries to draw our attention. Look!”

  Belewa’s finger stabbed down onto the map circling the northern coastal sector above Port Monrovia. “The Po River. The St. Paul. All these diversions happening to the north of our position. And nothing to the south.”

  Belewa’s fingertip arced across the map surface to the southern sector below Monrovia. “What is happening down here, Sako? What is it we are not seeing?”

  Holding Point Fathertree,

  Off the North Breakwater at Port Monrovia 2400 Hours, Zone Time;